C'est La Vie
by SilverKnight
Summary: /French / 1. that's life; such is life./ It took about three months after the Android Revolution that changed the world, for people to start looking around and actually realize that, no, the world was *always* this shit. (A collection of drabbles and little ideas that just won't leave me the fuck alone. Now my suffering is yours. Enjoy.)
1. Adult Daycare

Jeffrey Fowler walked into the precinct from his meeting at City Hall to find that he was now running a fucking daycare center.

At least, that was what it felt like. Glancing between the bullpen, he spotted, in no particular order: nearly fifteen teenagers either being booked, sitting at an officer's desk, or being escorted into a holding cell, probably from a schoolyard brawl, if he were to hazard a guess from the busted lips and torn out clumps of hair that they all seemed to sport; two brightly-dressed prostitutes sauntering out as they—or, more than likely, their pimp—posted bail; a fucking _clown_ sitting at Person's desk, giving a statement for God only knew what reason; and two of his best detectives having a verbal pissing contest at Anderson's desk, with the owner of that desk mysteriously absent.

Three years ago, the sight of it would've made Jeffrey's blood pressure skyrocket and his chest tighten. Now? If his body got any more tense, he'd start shitting diamonds, so he'd been advised to just, as the resident quack said, 'Go with the flow.'

Go with the fucking flow, she says. Sure. He could swing that.

He declined to intervene between Detectives Connor and Gavin Reed, because he'd been back in the building for all of fifteen seconds and hadn't even had a chance to take his fucking Class As off yet. Gavin Reed was a temperamental asshole at the best of times; now that Connor was here to, apparently, challenge that title, it only incited Reed to be even more of a caustic prick than he was before—_especially_ to Connor. To the kid's credit, Connor gave as good as he got—which was exactly how these dick-waving contests ended up happening in the middle of the precinct on a Tuesday. At first, it had been annoying. Shit, it was _still_ annoying. But, like anything else that made him want to put his fist—or someone else's head—through a wall, he eventually built up a tolerance to it, like a well-worn callous over vital parts of his higher-functioning brain.

He heard their words, but didn't really pay them any mind, as he tried to find their designated chaperone. Jeffrey knew from Hank's updates that their latest case was proving to be a real head-scratcher, and at some point, Hank had decided that getting Gavin's input would be helpful. An extra pair of eyes on something never hurt. From what it looked like at his desk, Hank spent exactly two minutes not regretting that idea before Connor and Gavin couldn't help but be Connor and Gavin. In a twisted way, it was hilarious to watch. They would've made a great stand-up duo. _Schadenfreude: the Musical. _They could make the marketing work.

Within seconds, he found where Hank had run off to, standing in the breakroom, a still-steaming cup of coffee resting untouched in front of his propped-up elbows, while he set about massaging the bridge of his nose with both hands. Anyone else would've looked at Anderson and thought that he was just tired, and not currently stressed out of his fucking mind—if there was one thing Hank excelled at, it was the ability to look casually disinterested in everything he did. The only times he really got serious were on crime-scenes, or when there was a gun in his face; that version of Hank was like staring down a pissed off bengal tiger, all muscles and intense eyes. Inwardly, Jeffrey knew that was _why_ Hank made such a point of looking bored, slouching his shoulders and dragging his feet—because Hank was a good guy that didn't want to scare people off just because of what he looked like. Jeffrey keenly felt that. Life being what it was—people being what they were—he always would.

He strolled into the breakroom, mercifully unbothered by anyone on the way over—guess the clowns, prostitutes, and Connor-Gavin duo sideshow was enough of a distraction, thank Christ—and stopped at Hank's side, leaning on the table with his forearms. He spared Hank a sideways glance, giving him a chance to say something, before he glanced back to the shitshow going on at Anderson's desk. "So. How's the assignment?"

As if God himself decided to brighten Jeffrey's day, Gavin's voice floated over the din of the precinct, "Fuck you, tin can!"

"Not if you paid me," came Connor's retort.

Hank groaned, a pained sound low in his throat, and dipped his head further into his hands.

Fowler hummed to himself, head listing to the side in commiseration. "That bad, huh?"

Hank lifted his head slightly, just enough that he stared sightlessly through everything, index fingers still jammed tightly between his eyes. He looked too dazed to outright murder anyone; that was a good sign. "Jesus fucking Christ," he breathed. "It's like herding cats. _Lobotomized_ cats."

Jeffrey made a non-committal noise, nodding blithely, before he reached over and grabbed the untouched cup of coffee that sat steaming in front of Hank's elbows. "Sounds like fun." He took a sip, lips twisting a little once the disgusting sludge hit his tongue. "Jesus, Hank, do you really need that much sugar?"

Hank's eyes tracked the movement, then narrowed beneath his brows. "How do you know I didn't spit in that?"

"You wouldn't waste the spit." He took another sip, this time, keeping his expression even. "How's the case going?"

Hank exhaled through his nose, once again rubbing his fingertips against his closed eyes. "Believe it or not, we've actually made good progress." He stopped shortly thereafter, fingers sliding to each temple, hands framing his face. "We'd be making _better_ progress if I didn't have to act like a fucking _babysitter_ half the time."

Jeffrey found himself smirking, knowing that feeling all too fucking well. Part of him wanted to say that was how he felt damn near anytime Hank had one of his bullshit tantrums in his office, or saw him pull off those batshit insane ploys of his on the field. Hank was one giant kid, losing his goddamn mind when he didn't get what he wanted. Luckily enough for him, and the rest of the world, what Hank usually wanted was seeing the right thing get done, so even when he needed a boot up his ass for his behavior, there was usually a good intention in there, somewhere. "Welcome to management."

Hank grunted. "And here I thought I was a cop."

Jefferey shrugged. "You take the lead, you deal with the shit that comes with it. Same thing."

Hank's gaze went distant again, what Jeffrey could see of his expression contemplative, before those bright blue eyes flicked in his direction. "How the hell do you put up with this, Jeffrey?"

At that, Jeffrey smiled, drawing himself to his full height. He was still two inches shorter than Hank. "Simple." He stepped back and clapped Hank on the shoulder. "I pawn it off on you, _Lieutenant_."

Hank's forearms dropped to the table with a meaty _thud_, glaring flatly at him as he took another draw of the coffee; now that he'd gotten used to it, the sugar actually wasn't so bad. Might have to try it for himself, next time. He spun on the ball of his polished dress-shoe, and called over his shoulder, "Let me know if anything develops on the case."

He got halfway across the bullpen before he heard Hank bellow from the breakroom, "Next time, I'm spitting in it!"

* * *

A/N: Management stress is real. And is suuuuucks.


	2. Wait For It

The first thought that ran through Hank's head was: 'Why did the sun have to be so fucking bright?'

He screwed his eyes shut tighter, as if that would somehow keep it all out, and shoved his head further under the covers. Fuck the sun. He didn't give a shit if it literally kept him and the world he inhabited alive—as far as he was concerned, the universe was getting screwed in the current deal, anyway. It may as well cuts it losses before humans did something stupid like find other worlds to fuck up.

Up for forty-five seconds, and he was already getting existential. Jesus Christ.

He blamed Connor; him and his stupid self-actualization bullshit, with his questions about _morality_, and _sentience_, and, _'Why are there an odd number of slices in a package of bread, Hank? __Isn't that__ wasteful?'_—ugh. If he wanted to wax philosophical about anything in life, he preferred it to be over why the fucking Gears haven't won a goddamn playoff game in fourteen years. If he wanted to get existential, he would've wondered why he still kept putting money on them every year, anyway.

Idly, he wondered what the fuck was wrong with him at—he cracked an eye open, staring blearily over the fuzzy charcoal gray comforter—at 8:17 AM, to be having any thoughts that weren't exclusively about work, Sumo, or Connor doing something that made him a pain in the ass.

Wait. Why _was_ he awake at 8:17 AM, and not 6:00 AM on the fucking dot, because Connor resoundingly refused to let him ever have a day to sleep in?

He sat up with a grimace, blinking past the clumps of gray hair dangling in front of his face, and listened keenly to the surrounding background noise of the house. No tromping of a dog, no motion of an android that didn't understand the concept of relaxation on a goddamn Saturday. Connor would've come back from Sumo's walk, by now. Something in his head perked up, and that something felt annoyingly like Connor—there was a mystery to solve!

He grunted wordlessly, pawing at the comforter and peeling it away from his legs. Fuck the mystery; coffee, first.

Hank plodded down the hallway, one foot in front of the other, steady in a way he still wasn't quite used to. Getting up stone-cold sober had its advantages, like not emptying the contents of his stomach on a nightly basis, and having an awareness of his surroundings that felt almost transcendent, now that every nerve-ending in his body wasn't being spit-roasted by hangover symptoms. He thought that maybe he should thank Connor for that, dragging him out of the bottom of a bottle, kicking and screaming the entire way, but the little shit was already on his ass about everyday bullshit, as it was. The very last thing he needed was tacitly giving Connor the go-ahead signal on telling him how to live his goddamn life.

Which, his mind supplied, was exactly what he was doing every time he got up at 6:00 AM on the fucking dot, every day, when Connor told him to.

Moving purely on autopilot, he started his coffee machine, plucking a clean mug from the cabinets as his internal argument continued. Look, if the kid wanted to be a nannybot, let him be a nannybot. He was free to do whatever he wanted, now. He could've been a nannybot to anyone else on Earth, could've gone to help Robo-Jesus restructure the lives of millions of androids—hell, could've made himself a damn messiah figure to them, if he wanted. Hank saw how a lot of the androids looked at Connor, whenever he walked past; they showed him a deference that most humans reserved for royalty—_better_ than royalty. That kid wielded a terrifying amount of power, and didn't even seem to realize it.

Rubbing his hands over his drooping, half-closed eyes, he lumbered towards the front door, halfheartedly noting that Sumo and his leash were, in fact, gone. Maybe Connor slept in, too. Could Connor even do that? He reached for the doorknob, mindlessly unlocking the deadbolt as his mind wandered. Did Connor get curious, and decide what it was like to be a slob like Hank, that actually wanted to sleep until the sun came up—

He opened the door, and found himself looking at a wall of androids standing on his front lawn. Staring at him.

He stared back. "The fuck."

There was movement, at the legs of the closest grouping. A familiar set of clothes adorned a familiar android, and he twisted from his kneeling position next to a familiar, slobbering dog that was all-too happy to be getting attention from possibly hundreds of androids that were standing on his motherfucking front lawn. Connor smiled and raised his hand in a small wave. "Good morning, Lieutenant. I hope we didn't wake you."

"The _fuck_," Hank repeated.

Connor blinked, brows furrowing slightly in sheepishness. "…They wanted to meet you." Sumo whined. "And Sumo." Connor smiled, that quiet little thing he did when he really wanted to put the screws to Hank. "The androids in New Jericho are always asking about you, so I decided to bring them here."

Hank blinked. "Here."

"Yes."

"To my fucking lawn."

Connor shrugged. "Where else would they stand?"

Wordlessly, Hank turned right back around, and slammed the door.

Connor blinked again, then glanced up to his acquaintances apologetically. "I guess he hasn't had any coffee yet."

* * *

A/N: This came from a hilarious thought/prompt of: RA9 Hank. That is to say, when Connor was waking up the androids, he was showing them footage of Hank being so goddamn contrary, that their brains couldn't compute what they were seeing and they deviated as a result.

And I love the idea of a bleary-eyed Hank just yanking open a door, seeing a sea of androids in front of him, then just noping out and going right back inside. :D


	3. Reset

Hank fucking hated the movie Groundhog Day.

He hated it as a kid, hated it as an adult, hated it as a concept, and as he was unfortunate enough to find out, most _definitely_ hated it as a reality.

He stopped trying to wonder if God was punishing him about…oh, he wasn't certain, maybe a hundred—thousand?—loops ago, because by now, even _God_ would've gotten bored and decided to change the channel. So, here he was, sitting at Jimmy's Bar—again—drinking his scotch whiskey—_again_—listening to the same goddamn awful Gears game and waiting for—

"Lieutenant Anderson, my name is Connor. I'm the android sent by CyberLife."

_Fucking again._

Here was where things could get interesting. Some loops, Hank simply pulled out his .357 Magnum, put it against the android's head, and blew a hole clear through his shiny plastic skull. Other loops, he put the gun against his own head, instead. He stopped when he realized he was just effectively teleporting himself about five minutes into the past. Fuck that. The whiskey was not that good.

In other loops still, he simply grabbed Connor by the tie and dragged him onto the nearest barstool, just for variety's sake. He wasn't much for conversation—androids usually weren't, despite their _advanced AI_—but despite being a glorified household appliance that had all the social decorum of a German Shepherd with a rope to play with, he pulled off the listening portion surprisingly well.

Which, knowing what Hank had learned about this plastic prick so far, felt somehow more bizarre than whatever-the-fuck it was he was currently living through. And here people thought miracles didn't exist anymore.

What was he feeling like, this loop? He let the cheap whiskey roll around his tongue for a moment, pointedly ignoring the android that was directly next to him, staring down at him with his head listed to the side like a curious puppy. He'd already gone on killing sprees, before—been there, done that. He'd offed himself in every way he could've ever wanted—and a few more that were happy accidents. He'd solved the case, he'd let the android go, he'd once even lit the entire goddamn abandoned house on fire, with himself in it. Not one of the more fun suicides, he had to say.

He swallowed the liquor, smacking his lips once and running a finger over the rim of the glass casually. What did he want to do this time?

Not like it mattered. Not like _anything_ mattered.

He leaned back on the stool with a quiet groan, drumming the fingers of his left hand against the bar-top, as he curiously drooped his head to one side, regarding the android regarding _him_. "CyberLife, huh?" he asked, feeling amiable, this time around. He motioned vaguely to Connor's suit jacket, his movements only a little bit uncoordinated. Just a little. "Guess, uh, lighting up every billboard in Detroit wasn't enough advertising for them, so they sent you out here as a sponsor, or something?"

He already knew the answer to that. He already knew the answer Connor would give, every possible variant. Every inflection, twitch of the head, shift of color in his eyes—those tiny, indistinct flickers of humanity in something that CyberLife, the world, and Connor himself, resoundingly kept saying was never designed to be human.

Fuck 'em.

He rose from his barstool without waiting for the android to answer him. "Murder investigation, right? Involving an android?"

Connor's head ticked to the side, just a hair to the right. "You were informed." The inflection, the small hint of pleasant surprise, was enough to make it sound like both a question and a statement.

Hank merely smirked ruefully, shaking his head as he lumbered through the door. "Nope. You already told me."

There was a hint of a pause from behind him; Connor's processors were probably trying to approximate how much alcohol needed to be in his system in order to start hallucinating. Connor had outright admitted it once. Hank had merely replied, "More than the average, that's for damn sure."

He wanted something a little different, this time around. He tossed a glance over the shoulder of his worn-down leather coat, noting the way the plastic prick kept in his blind spot, like he always did when they first met. That would sometimes change when Connor worked enough cases with him—like he started to feel more comfortable being in the presence of a human. Part of him wondered what the kid would be like if he were ever allowed to live past November 10th. That part of him died a hundred-thousand times before these goddamn loops even started.

And, just like this Groundhog Day bullshit he found himself in, no matter how many times it died, it just came right fucking back, when he didn't want it to.

Was that the cutesy moral this little Aesop's fucking Fable was trying to sell him on? To stop wondering? To stop thinking? To stop _hoping_?

Every time. _Every time_ he ran into Connor, the questions he didn't want to ask started all over again, even when he fought them. Especially when he fought them. He was tired of asking, and not getting answers. He was tired of getting some answers, and not others. He was tired of never seeing this kid's full potential, because somewhere, somehow, their relationship would sour, and Connor would shrink back into his coding like a child that was afraid of the boogeyman under their bed. Hell, maybe Hank _was_ the boogeyman under Connor's bed; maybe he was better off dead.

Why couldn't he _die_?

He was suddenly exhausted, a bone-weariness that sank into the marrow and wedged into it a dull ache that liquor could never numb. Hank reached his car, right hand dipping into his coat pocket with the kind of practiced ease that couldn't come from anything but several lifetime's worth of reiteration. He thought, briefly, about burning this coat as soon as he got home, but he'd already done that about half a dozen times. It didn't make a difference. He'd made his decision, this loop: fuck the case. He was going to sleep—

And then wake up, and then suddenly be back at the bar goddamn _fuck everything about this world_—

He yanked on the car door hard, grip slipping around the water-slicked handle. Settling in the driver's side seat, he tilted his head around the ajar door and said, "Look, I'm not really in the mood to put up your bullshit, this time around, but I'll give you a hint: check the attic."

Connor's mouth opened, then closed. Opened again. "I'm sorry, I don't think I understand what you're referring—"

Hank slammed the door and turned the ignition key.

Connor seemed confused. Even a little offended. Muffled from the rain, a layer of steel and glass, and Hank's own perpetual ennui, he stated, "Lieutenant, this isn't helpful to the investigation."

_'__The investigation's a scam, Connor,' _Hank wanted to say, _had_ said before. That conversation ended with a bullet lodged in Connor's skull for his efforts, with Connor's terrified, despairing scream still ringing in his ears. It looked like androids could have existential crises, too.

That loop finally ended nearly a week later, after he marched straight into CyberLife headquarters and emptied a clip into their worthless sack of shit CEO, along with at least seven private security guards that were stupid enough to try and get in his way. He found out later, while being shuttled to Stonecrest to spend the rest of his life in a padded room, that their top-of-the-line toy going apeshit, and causing his human partner to go on a vengeful murderous rampage on his behalf, managed to convince their development heads to halt the RK800 project in its entirety. He wondered what they would've done with the remaining—

Hank's hand hovered over the gear shift of his car, jaw going slack.

He had lived for another six days after Connor's death. They were awful days, filled with booze, regret, and an overflowing need to avenge someone that nobody else gave a second thought to. But he lived them, all the same. He only looped back when he was informed of Connor's permanent dismantling.

His mind, ever the steel fucking trap, even in a perpetually inebriated state, starting replaying memories and connecting dots. If he managed to survive to the end of a loop—which, admittedly, was uncommon, especially these days—it always ended with the deviants being rounded up and destroyed by CyberLife and the federal government, or with Connor's permanent deactivation.

Holy shit. Holy fucking _shit_—was Connor trapped in here, with him? Was _Connor_ the key to all of this?

Connor, completely ignorant of Hank's sudden epiphany, walked right up to Hank's Oldsmobile and stared into the driver's side window expectantly, like being drenched in the rain was just something he did for fun. Knowing how weird Connor could get sometimes, Hank wouldn't have been all that surprised to find out that was true. His voice, a raspy tenor, was still muffled as he amiably stated, "You seem to be having trouble keeping concentration; maybe it would be best if I drove?"

Hank wrinkled his nose in distaste more out of rote, than anything. That was a statement he hadn't heard in a long while. He gaped up at the android, analyzing the youthfully designed features, trying to understand just what the fuck made this prick so goddamn special that the universe decided that he _absolutely could not die_.

Maybe he could find out. After all, it wasn't like he had anything better to do than solve a cosmic mystery or two. He could add it to his resume, later.

Hank unlocked the passenger side door, rolling down his window just enough to be clearly heard. "Get in, asshole, before I run you over."

"You wouldn't run me over, Lieutenant," Connor chirped happily in reply. "Your sense of duty wouldn't let you."

Hank's distaste was more genuine, this time. High-and-mighty plastic prick. "Will you shut the fuck up, and get in the car?"

Connor jolted into movement, something almost excited in his handcrafted facial expressions. "Coming, Lieutenant."

"Fuckin' A," Hank muttered to himself, hoping to God he wasn't going to immediately regret this. "Adapting to human unpredictability, my fucking ass."

* * *

**A/N: ** Groundhog Day + Undertale = Hank is Not a Good Life Coach :D


End file.
